Jaded
by Myrime
Summary: Alcohol and bitterness don't make for a good godfather. - Sirius and drowning


Jaded

* * *

 _That's the paradox of love: How can something that's gone weigh us down so much?_  
(The Storyteller - Jody Picoult)

* * *

He has gotten old. There are deep lines surrounding his eyes and dark batches under them, speaking of sleepless nights and a full moon that doesn't seem to end. Grey streaks adorn his hair, not silver at least, because that would have been too ironic. But a dark grey, a lifeless grey, dull and haunting and speaking of years he has not yet lived but that weigh him down nonetheless.

Sirius guesses they make quite a pair. Gaunt face and scars. Starved body and frail one. Guilty mind and betrayed one.

Silence surrounds them and erects walls higher than those of Azkaban, impenetrable, cast into an ocean they have filled themselves, with doubts and fears and sharp-edged words. He is not so sure they will have the courage to cross it. Fine pair of Gryffindors they are.

That first moment in the Shrieking Shack, meeting his eyes after twelve long years and a whole lifetime – or a dozen – of pain and loneliness and memories that won't go away no matter what he does, it is almost as if everything is possible again. As if _they_ are possible again.

They have a common friend – Harry – and a common enemy – Peter – and that should be enough, right? It's just, they don't have a common dream anymore. No wild hopes for that life that isn't really ahead of them anymore, because they already lived and died, and now they are just breathing and nothing more.

"Moony," Sirius croaks, and his voice is hoarse and full of desperation, and a little bit dead, too. And Remus hates himself for being surprised by that. It isn't any different for him, after all.

Once they carried life in every fibre of their being, laughing and strutting around confidently. Now they carry death. At least they are still brothers in that.

* * *

"You shouldn't drink so much," Remus had said, and fled back into the supposed safety of his room when the only answer he got was a glass hurled at his head. It missed, of course. Trembling hands are not meant to hit their target.

The expression in the familiar grey eyes does hit, however, right into his heart. And it hurts more than he cares to admit.

Because, they are together again, now. So, how is it that, somehow, he is more alone than before?

* * *

They try to stare each other down, not willing to budge even the slightest bit.

"Let me out," Sirius growls and desperation colours his eyes with madness.

"You are still a fugitive. What –"

"Yeah, what _if_ they find me?" his voice is scathing, but it pains both of them equally. "Wouldn't you be happy to get rid of me?"

Remus doesn't answer at first, carefully contemplating the treacherous musings of his heart.

"You would get the kiss."

"So?" He is afraid of that, but you would never know it from his stance, arrogant, aloof – in a jaded kind of way. He used to wear arrogance like a well-tailored suit, adding to his rogue charm. Now it only emphasizes his bitterness.

"You deserve better than that," neither of them knows if Remus means life or death. And Sirius doesn't ask him to clarify, because he doesn't really know what he would prefer himself.

* * *

Harry stares at him, and Sirius almost laughs, because he knows the expression in his eyes. Lily used to look at him like that for seven long years. Disapproving. Disappointed. He doesn't find it in himself to care.

"Why don't you come down with me. We're all in the kitchen," he snorts at his godson's plea.

"And what would I do there?" raising the whiskey bottle as if for a toast, he grins bitterly. "I would only ruin the mood. And I'm not keen on another one of Molly's lectures."

"She's right, you know," Harry's voice is soft, and Sirius is not really sure, if he has heard him correctly through the drunken haze that clouds his mind. "You could at least try."

"That sounds like something fucking St. Remus would say," the boy flinches but it does not bring him any satisfaction.

"We care for you."

"Yeah," he cocks his head, staring intently at Harry. "Then you should prepare yourself for the fall. Nothing good ever comes from that."

Then he laughs, wild and uproarious, breathing clouds of alcohol into the air, thinking that, when the wild fire of regret burning in his chest would only send off a spark, he could at least go out with the explosion he always wanted.

* * *

"Full moon tonight," Remus half-offers, half-pleads.

"Yeah?" Sirius merely tightens the grip around his bottle and continues to stare at nothing. "Leave your door open."

Remus doesn't. And Sirius never notices. He has forgotten all about it before the moon has even risen.

* * *

"Will you take care of him for me?" the voice waking Remus from his fitful sleep is not one he has heard in a very long time. Not since school when Walburga demanded her son's presence at Christmas. Not since he ran away from 'home'. Not since James' parents had died.

It is small and quiet and uncertain, shaking and full of foreboding. Not at all fitting the persona Sirius wants the world to see. It is the voice of the child that hid beneath his covers when he heard his parent's arguing, hoping his mother wouldn't take out her anger on him again. The voice of the friend who made a grievous error, thinking he destroyed the most valuable thing in his life with one careless prank. The voice of the man who just could do nothing to stop the war to keep his almost-brother safe – or his real brother at that.

It screams of desperation and raw agony. Still, Remus is glad to hear it, because he can deal with this Sirius. He knows after all about wounds that refuse to heal, and of darkness not letting go of your soul.

"Of course," he says simply before motioning the man, who looks like he is drowning, closer. He does not tell soothing lies, does not promise that the next morning will be brighter, or that Sirius will surely be there to take care of Harry himself. He does not ask about the terror that lies in clenched hands and the memories clawing at his aching ribcage.

He just holds him, and waits for the storm to pass.

* * *

The room is dark and filled with heaps of rubbish, attacking the werewolf's sensible nose with horrible stenches. The man lying in a crumpled mess right in between the chaos doesn't seem to mind. Or maybe he doesn't notice, with his mind being miles, and years – a lifetime, really – away.

"Harry is missing you."

No answer, other than a careless shrug, barely visible. The hippogriff, however, snuggled close to the man, looks up. There is a starved look in his eyes, not unlike the one his human companion sports most days.

"He wants out of here," Sirius croaks, and caresses the beast's feathers almost lovingly. Both of them lean into that precious source of warmth, of caring even.

"This is no place for him," Remus agrees, but he doesn't know whom he is speaking of, really. "Maybe you should let him go."

"No," the sharp voice startles them both, but Sirius recovers first and starts chuckling darkly. "I can't. That would leave me all alone here."

Remus does not say that Sirius is not alone, that there are always Order members around, that he himself _lives_ here. Instead, he thinks, it might not be so bad if he doesn't have to suffer alone.

* * *

The idea of Christmas leaves him smiling. He doesn't even drink that much, content with reliving his memories for once.

First year, Hogwarts. Magic in its most pure form, festive and happy and so, so far away from his 'family'.

Second year, with the Potters. Warm and embracing and loving. And he never spends this particular holiday anywhere else ever again.

(Apart from fifth year, but he doesn't think about that or the reverence in his mother's voice when she talked about that 'fine Lord who would change this world for the better' or her not so subtle threats about how the rest of his life would play out.)

No, he is all about decoration and presents and forgetting the world out there.

It does not work, of course. But he is trying.

* * *

He cannot sleep. There are always monsters waiting in the dark, leaving him cold and hollow and a bit more _gone_ after every night.

Being awake is not better at all.

He trails down towards the kitchen, intent on getting another bottle of burning relief – only it is not really relieving. The memories are still there, just numbed and blurred and coloured in a less bitter light. It doesn't bring the good things back, it just makes the bad ones less real.

Someone is already down here, sitting at the table with a steaming mug and goose bumps covering skinny arms.

"Hermione," he tastes the name, slightly disappointed that it doesn't burn like the amber liquid.

She jumps and turns around wide-eyed, but relaxes when she recognizes him. "Sirius." He wants to laugh at her misplaced trust, because who is he to keep anyone safe?

"Why aren't you in bed?"

She shrugs uncomfortably, but when she speaks there is no hesitation in her voice. "Harry had another nightmare. Ron got me and we managed to calm him down. But I just couldn't go back to sleep."

She watches him curiously, probably expecting him to run upstairs to his godson at once. Part of him wants to, urges him, even. Instead, he gets that bottle he came here for and sits down next to her.

When the silence starts to make her fidgety, she continues. "They are getting worse. He doesn't always tell what they're about, but I'm afraid he's getting too obsessed with them."

There is still no reaction from him.

"They can't be good."

The whiskey is exquisite, burning like an old friend, welcoming him home.

"No," he agrees at last. "But he's got you."

He doesn't really mean it in any positive kind of way. He's had a perfect friendship once, and see where it brought them.

Still, her face brightens, as if he had said something remarkably clever or helpful. As if their fall wouldn't come soon enough.

* * *

Ron's eyes hold something he isn't used to in Weasleys.

"You disgust me," he spats sure enough, young voice sounding old, but Sirius only shrugs. He does that a lot these days.

"Harry looks up to you. He _loves_ you," both of them are surprised by that. "And you – you just let yourself waste away here and drink and wallow in self-pity."

Anger rises in Sirius and he is almost glad for that. This burning has quite another quality than whiskey, far more intense, warming him where Azkaban left only ice.

"And what would you have me do?" the wreck of a man asks softly.

Ron does not know how to answer. He opens and closes his mouth several times until Sirius begins to laugh.

"You disgust me," he repeats. Then, "Harry deserves better."

Sirius merely nods solemnly. "Yes, he does." And he has never pretended any different.

* * *

"Don't do anything stupid, Sirius," Remus voice is frantic as he looks around, eyes narrowed and wand gripped tightly. "You're out of training."

"I don't care about myself," Sirius snaps back, almost regretting the couple shots he had for lunch. "I just want to find Harry."

"You won't help him if you get yourself killed."

They are rushing through the gloomy halls of the Department of Mysteries, always following the sound of fighting in front of them.

"I haven't been any help at all until now."

Remus doesn't have to answer. They both know it is true. Alcohol and bitterness don't make for a good godfather.

But that would change, Sirius vows to himself, as he takes down one of their masked opponents, for once entirely focused, be it because of fear for Prong's son or the adrenaline rushing through him. He hadn't been on a battlefield other than his mind in years.

He hears familiar, cackling laughter, and knows where to go. Bellatrix would never be anywhere else than right in the middle of the action.

"Remember what you promised?" he yells over the sounds of fighting. After years of silence and only his own screams, it is like the sweetest music to him. "Take care of Harry for me."

Remus glares at him, irritated and – afraid. "Don't you dare, Black."

And it is the last thing they ever say to each other. Because Sirius stumbles off, throwing curses like whiskey glasses on his worse days, felling enemies and somehow managing to stay on his feet himself. He laughs and taunts and is alive for a short, eternal moment before he falls.

He cannot even find it in himself to regret it, when he sees Harry's shock, the building grief on the too familiar face, one he will see again mere seconds from now.

He dies smiling, and that, really, is all he ever asked for.

* * *

Please let me know what you think about this! And thank you for reading.


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